Why Does the Death of Philip Seymour Hoffman Sadden Us?

The news alert that came through my smart phone on Sunday shocked me, as it did innumerable others: Academy Award-winning actor Philip Seymour Hoffman has died. And like innumerable others, I scoured the Internet for a news source, posted a link on Facebook, and expressed my disbelief and sadness on social networks. The New York Times published a series of Twitter encomiums by fellow actors. Anna Kendrick’s (@AnnaKendrick47) was particularly poignant: “Philip Seymour Hoffman. Unbearably, shockingly, deeply sad. Words fail to describe his life and our loss.”

My own reaction barely warrants a ripple in this tide. Still, I felt compelled to express my sadness, as I feel moved to write this essay. Why? Did I know the man? No.

Or did I?

Bruce Weber, writing in the Times, called Hoffman “perhaps the most ambitious and widely admired American actor of his generation,” a correct assessment, I’d say. He also zeroed in on one of Hoffman’s ineffable gifts as an actor—“his Everyman mien.” In a wildly diverse array of roles, Hoffman embodied each character so completely as to suggest he could be anyone we knew—either in real life, or, in the case of Truman Capote, someone from the pantheon of culture.

As for Hoffman’s complete submersion in the complex soul of that astonishing writer? Who other than he—and this is to take nothing away from Toby Jones’s own splendid performance in the Capote role— could have accomplished that? The voice, the accent, the demeanor, the neurosis.

Don’t take my word for it, though. Take a look at this brief compilation showing some of the characters memorably brought to life by this singular actor.

Philip Seymour Hoffman was found dead in a Greenwich Village apartment on Sunday, Feb. 2, a syringe in his arm. Reports indicate he died of an apparent drug overdose.

I cannot speak to the destructive force of drug addiction. No one I have ever known has suffered under that particular curse, and minds more learned than mine will have to weigh in on its insidious power to invade a person’s soul, and the tragic role it played in Hoffman’s life and death. All I know is this: extraordinarily gifted and utterly ordinary people—too many in our society—have been lost to the disease. If Hoffman’s death sparks a meaningful, productive, dialog in our country about drug addiction, then perhaps that’s something. But in the meantime, his family, friends, and colleagues grieve.

His family’s loss is something I can relate to; my father died when I was 13. Is this why I’m so deeply saddened by Hoffman’s sudden, untimely death? Did losing a parent at a vulnerable age condition me to feel losses such as Hoffman’s more deeply?

Or is it the nature of celebrity itself? A movie screen—a thin membrane, really—separates an audience from the larger-than-life inhabitants on the other side. But such is the power of a performer as profoundly talented as Hoffman that he can pierce that barrier, touch our souls, and sear an image into our memory.

And then there’s the fact that film lives forever. Hoffman cannot really be gone, can he? Not when we can log into Netflix, select The Talented Mr. Ripley, and see him right there on the screen of a device we hold in our hands? The intimacy of film, and our ready access to it, is such that we literally carry these performances with us. This is such a gift, and possibly a comfort, but it nevertheless renders an actor as vivid as Hoffman with a familiar quality.

How must that false sense of intimacy feel for a celebrated actor? To know that wherever he goes, whatever he does in his off-screen, off-stage life, he is recognized. Known, but not known. How much of a burden was fame for Hoffman? How much of a burden is it for anyone living a public life?

In trying to answer one question—why am I so saddened by the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman?—I only seem to come up with more questions.

Do we grieve the loss of a man we’ve never met because, like us, he was once anonymous? And, like many of us, he had a dream? And, unlike most of us, he saw that dream realized? Is he our proxy? Those of us who deferred our own dreams, or are waiting to see them come true, feel the icy slap of reality: If we get our heart’s desire, someday it will go away. None of us lives forever. How long, really, might we have to enjoy our dreams made manifest?

The loss of Philip Seymour Hoffman—of anyone in the public eye—is a reminder of our own mortality, writ large.

Or maybe it’s not quite as cosmic as all that. Maybe, for those of us who appreciate art and hold artists in high esteem, it means the end of something great. At the time of his death, Hoffman had three films in varying stages of production—the two-part Mockingjay films from the HungerGames franchise, and a documentary about autism. It is unclear what his death will mean for their respective releases, but suffice to say that after any of these films come out, we will never again see a new performance by Philip Seymour Hoffman.

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14 thoughts on “Why Does the Death of Philip Seymour Hoffman Sadden Us?”

His death scared me to death. Yesterday was my husband’s 23 anniversary of being clean and sober. I am proud of his commitment to his sobriety and his selfless support of so many still suffering.
Phillip’s death scared me because he too was sober 23 years.
It is a tormenting disease that continues to try to consume you forever.
My husband promises to let someone know, he knows if he gives in he will die, I’m still scared.

Oh Doreen…before I type another word, please convey my congratulations to your husband on his 23rd-anniversary! That’s a wonderful, inspiring achievement. That he reaches out to help others is a testament to the type of person he must be. The world could use millions more like him.

You are right, the fact that Hoffman was sober for some 23 years, but fell down the mountain—for whatever reason or trigger—is especially frightening and heartbreaking. My thoughts and prayers are with him, his family, and his friends and colleagues, as they are with you and your husband. May strength and peace continue to bless you both, all the rest of your days. Thank you for writing.

I am betting that every addict in recovery and those who love them feels as Doreen does. PSH’s senseless, tragic death has shaken me to my core as I am coming up on my two-year anniversary of being clean; three years, sober. When you are new in recovery, seeing someone who looked as if they had recovery down, that they understood the disease and had perhaps even “won,” then slide back into active addiction and end up dead is beyond terrifying. This is a potent, stinging reminder that one never fully “recovers” from addiction. It’s a constant, lifelong battle. And it’s only with vigilance that we stay clean. I’m chairing my home group’s meeting tonight and this will be our topic of discussion.

Norine, you are beyond courageous to share your powerful story…and every word you write is true. Have you read Russell Brand’s March essay in The Guardian? It’s making the rounds on social media in the awful aftermath of PSH’s tragic death. He writes: “The … sufferer must, of course, be a willing participant in their own recovery. They must not pick up a drink or drug, one day at a time. Just don’t pick up, that’s all.”

I applaud you and hope that you–and you, Doreen–can feel the strength I’m willing your way.

My gosh, thank you, Becky. It’s lovely of you to take the time to visit my blog and post a comment. I’ll look forward to meeting you at the workshop. The news of Philip Seymour Hoffman’s death has gripped me like no other…I cannot imagine what his family and friends are going through right now.

I agree about his family and friends. When someone so young and so talented dies, it just doesn’t make any sense, does it? Your sentences about the burden of his fame were brilliant, really. And I don’t just throw that word around, either. I’m really looking forward to meeting you, too. I haven’t participated in ANY of the posts and comments on facebook for quite a while because I’ve been busy marketing/promoting, etc. my first book, my memoir. I guess it would be alright to say something about it on the Erma page? I hadn’t thought about that. Gotta run…thank you again for your wonderful reply to my comment! ….this could go on forever!!

By all means, post an update on the Erma page about your memoir! I’m in the early stages of a similar book project, and look forward to speaking with you about the process, aftermath, etc. Let’s make sure we’re following one another on social media. Thanks again. It’s a pleasure to meet you.

Maybe one reason we feel this so sharply is because we liked him so much. The thought that he will not have the joy of seeing his children grow, will not have the many movies he would have made, not have his golden years – these things hurt my heart on his behalf because I would have wished them for him.

A.O. Scott made that point in the New York Times today in a beautiful tribute: “We will be denied his Lear, his Prospero, his James Tyrone in another “Long Day’s Journey Into Night.”… You’re right. We wished him so many more successes…thank you for your comment, and for taking the time to read my essay.

Beautifully written, Marci. I’m right there with you – the news of PSH’s death shook me to the core. He is one of my favorite actors, for precisely the reasons you mention. The celeb tweet that hit me the hardest was Jim Carrey’s: “Dear Philip, a beautiful beautiful soul. For the most sensitive among us the noise can be too much.” I do hope you are right about this tragedy opening up new dialogue and ultimately saving lives.

Leslie, thank you for your incredibly kind and thoughtful comment. I love the Jim Carrey tweet…from what I’ve been reading, it does seem as though the conversation has begun…hoping it continues, and will save lives in the process. Thanks again.

Nancy, thank you for your kind comment. The word that keeps coming up in other news stories is “robbed.” His death feels like a robbery. Such heartbreak for Mimi O’Donnell and their three lovely children…look at me, writing as if I know them! And yet so many of us who admired his great talent do feel that way. Keeping them in my prayers…